


Many Miles of Blood

by LovelyLessie



Series: Left our Home on Hollow Bones [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, Novelization, Retelling, Story within a Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6563941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLessie/pseuds/LovelyLessie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With darkspawn on their heels, the Hawke family flees Lothering and the Blight and begins the long journey to Kirkwall - a tale dutifully repeated, many years later, by the faithful archivist of their family history. Part 1 - the king's army, with Hawke among them, prepares to stand against the darkspawn horde.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She hears their footsteps approaching from the hallway, even through the heavy doors, and lifts her head, tearing her attention from the book in her hands to glance over her shoulder at the room’s entrance. She will not be pleased at yet another fruitless interruption, but she knows this lead is good, and it sounded, when it was discussed, as if they really had found the man. If that’s true, this time will be different. If that’s true, she’ll finally have what she needs in her hands.

The doors fly open and two men march in with a figure between them, hanging limp in their grasps, held up by his arms. She narrows her eyes and watches them in silence.

They cross the room in silence except for the sound of their boots on the flagstones, and throw the prisoner into the chair waiting for him. He stirs and groans, lifting his head to rub his brow with stubby fingers as he looks around the room.

“I’ve had gentler invitations,” he says dryly.

She steps forward into the light and drops the book on the table. The sound of it echoes thunderously in the great chamber.

“I am Cassandra Pentaghast,” she announces coldly. “Seeker of the Chantry.”

He lifts his chin, studying her calmly. “And what, exactly, are you seeking?” he asks at length.

“The Champion,” she says, and thrusts the book at him across the table.

He raises his eyebrows and drops his eyes, not to look at the book, but to examine the fingertips of his gloves. “Which one?” he asks, pulling idly at a loose thread.

Shre slams both her hands on the table, leaning over him. “You know _exactly_ why I’m here!” she snarls, and daws her knife to put the tip to his throat.

He glances at the blade of the knife and regards her with no more concern than before. He _knows,_ damn it - he _knows_ she can’t do anything to him. Frustrated, she turns the knife over and drives the point into the book, so hard it goes through the pages and hits the table. “Start talking, dwarf,” she commands, straightening. “I’m told you’re good at it.”

“Alright,” he says, his voice finally betraying some trace of - not fear, certainly, but perhaps surprise. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me everything about her,” she orders, glowering at him as he examines the damaged book. “Start from the beginning.”

There’s a wicked gleam in his eyes when he looks up at her. “Whatever you say,” he says, smirking, and sets the book aside. “You probably already know, it started with the Blight. Darkspawn poured out of the wilds. On the edge of the cliffs in the south of Ferelden, the Champion herself made a stand against the darkspawn.”

 

* * *

 

“Here they come!” Marian calls, pulling an arrow from her quiver and readying it. Beside her, Carver steps back, raising his sword with both hands and bracing himself for the attack, and on her left Garrett grips his staff more tightly.

They appear over the ridge: darkspawn, first three, then four of them, sharp teeth bared in hideous grins, black eyes sunken into their withered and terrible heads. “Now!” Marian shouts.

No sooner are they in view than Garrett slams his staff into the ground and throws a ball of fire at them with one hand. They all howl horribly. Marian draws back her bowstring and fires at the one nearest, loosing an arrow into its chest. It staggers, grunting, and jerks its head around to find the source of the attack. She’s already turned her bow on the next one, and her next shot strikes it in the shoulder hard enough that it drops its weapon.

With a wordless yell, Carver rushes at them, his head down and his sword ready to swing. He delivers a blow that knocks one of them to the ground and sets a second off balance. Before it can recover he turns his blade back on it.

Marian sees another coming at him from the side, and pulls back her arm. The arrow goes right between its eyes, and it stumbles back, gurgling.

“Thanks!” Carver shouts, and whirls to take off its head with a clean blow. Garrett gets the next, encasing it in ice so it can’t move. Carver’s next strike lands solidly across its chest and it cracks into pieces.

Everything falls silent, for a moment, and Carver drops to his knees on the ground.

“Scouts,” he says in a slightly shaking voice, looking up from the corpses to meet Marian’s eyes. “There’ll be more behind them, and close. We’ll have to face them sooner or later.”

Marian lowers her bow and glances at Garrett, who nods. “Then we make our stand here,” she says. It’s as good a place as any to fight the darkspawn, a flat plateau stained black with the sludge from their veins, with the great mountain of a dead ogre’s figure rising next to them. It’s as good a place as any to die, if they’re going to die.

“There’s more!” Carver cries, climbing to his feet. “Shall I give them a taste of my blade?”

“They’re all yours,” Marian says grimly, turning to survey their surroundings. There are more of them approaching from the other path, and likely more still behind them, yet out of sight.

Carver runs at the approaching gaggle of ‘spawn, twisting his sword back so he has the widest possible arc to swing it. The momentum as he does carries the blade through all three of them at once, cleaving their spines in two and dropping them all to the ground. The next wave, approaching from the south, is met with a rain of fire that Garrett calls down, and Marian follows it with a hail of arrows that scatters between them to pierce them all.

“Look out!” Carver shouts, and she can feel the ground shaking under her feet before she even turns to look, knows before she sees it what’s approaching. A second ogre is charging up the slope towards them, as big as a tree, its monstrous face twisted with hunger.

“Prepare yourselves!” Marian shouts, readying her bow.

It roars as it reaches the top of the bluff, lowering its head. “Carver, move!” Garrett shouts, and Carver leaps to the side as he hurls a fireball at it. Marian fires at it, aiming straight at its head while Carver goes after its legs, his sword whistling as he cuts through the air. The ogre drops to its knees, howling.

Marian looses an arrow into one eye, and then into the other. It flails blindly, great fists whipping through the air grasping for something to attack, but Carver dodges out of the way, and she and Garrett are out of its reach. Garrett whirls his staff through the air and sends shards of ice into its heart.

“Its mouth, Marian!” Carver yells. “Aim for its mouth!”

“I’m trying!” she shouts back, her bowstring drawn back as tightly as it can go as she waits for the opportunity. “Look over here, you massive brute, over here - “

It works; the ogre turns towards the sound of her voice, trying to get to its feet, and she fires directly into the back of its throat. It roars and falls, shaking the bluffs around them as it drops to the ground.

“There’s no end to them!” Carver calls desperately as he looks around. More darkspawn are climbing towards them, already almost upon them. “We can’t keep this up forever!”

“Maybe they’ll run out of darkspawn,” Garrett offers dryly, settling back into a fighting stance, his staff angled across his chest.

“We have to keep fighting,” Marian says fiercely, turning so she’s back to back with her brother. “We can’t give up now.”

“Then let’s give them everything we’ve got,” Carver says grimly, backing away from the approaching horde to join them.

But before the ‘spawn reach them, there’s a roar, not from around them nor from ahead but from above, and a great shadow passes over the sky. Marian lifts her head, and sees above them a dragon, its wings outstretched, spitting fire in a vast arc at the darkspawn encircling their group. Flames rise up around them as the creature comes to rest, with another roar, on the cliff towering over them, and Marian stares up at it in awe.

 

* * *

 

“Bullshit!” she snaps, striking the table with her fist. “That’s _not_ what really happened!”

He stops and looks up at her, raising one eyebrow. “No?” he asks. “Does that not match the story you’ve heard?”

She glares, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m not here for stories,” she tells him. “I’m here for the truth.”

“And what makes you think I know the truth?” he asks, spreading his hands.

“Don’t play games with me!” she snaps. “You were there when it all began! You knew her, even before she was the Champion!”

He scoffs and shakes his head at her, one corner of his mouth twisting up into a mocking smile. “Even if I did,” he says, “I don’t know where she is now.”

She leans forward, slapping both palms against the table so hard it shakes. “Do you have _any_ idea what’s at stake here?” she demands.

He actually has the nerve to _laugh_ at that. “Let me guess,” he drawls, resting his elbows on the table and putting his chin in one hand. “Your precious Chantry’s fallen to pieces, and you need the one person who could _possibly_ help you put it back together.”

She turns her back on him, clenching her fists and gritting her teeth as she fights the urge to punch him. “If you can’t point me to her,” she says, “then give me everything you can.”

“You’re not worried I’ll just make it up as I go?” he says, taunting.

She looks back at him and studies him. His eyes glint like steel as he looks back at her. “Not at all,” she says after a moment.

He shrugs. “Alright,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a smirk on his face and folding his hands in front of his chest. “But you’ll have to hear the _whole_ story.”

“Then tell it,” she says.

He gives her a long, calculating look before he nods. “Alright,” he says. “I should start with Ostagar.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Ostagar? You don’t mean at the same battle where the King of Ferelden…”

“The very one,” he says. “The things that led the Champion to Kirkwall, they all started there. After all, it was the Blight that drove the family out of Ferelden.”

“Hm,” she says, regarding him coldly. “In that case, carry on. I would hear of their involvement.”

He nods, still giving her the same smug look. “The morning before the battle,” he says, “the king’s army left the ruins and marched to the edge of the Wilds, where King Cailan planned to make his stand against the darkspawn horde. And among those soldiers, fighting with the third company, was the Champion herself.”


	2. Chapter 2

The march down to the valley, through the edges of the Wilds, around the hills where the fortress sits and under the bridge that spans the space between its sections, happens in near silence. The heavy weight of dread hangs over everyone, keeping all the soldiers quiet and reserved, but below it there’s a buzz of tension and eagerness, a trembling energy building up towards the coming evening storm.

“What have the scouts brought back?” Carver asks in a low voice, turning over his shoulder to see Marian. “Do we know yet?”

She shakes her head, the corners of her mouth tightening. “I don’t think they’ve returned,” she says. “Or else they haven’t gotten here yet - maybe they went to the main camp.”

“Why would they do that?” he says, his nose crinkling. “The rear guard doesn’t need the news urgently, exactly, do they?”

“The rear guard is preparing to join us in the evening,” Marian reminds him. “King Cailan is going to bring them down just before the battle, except the few who are staying to protect the camp.”

“How many is that?” he asks. “Will they be enough to protect the injured and the priestesses?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know how _many._ Some of the Wardens, I think, and a handful of the King’s men.”

Carver nods, considering that seriously. “I thought the Wardens were fighting on the front lines,” he says. “Since they’re immune to the taint, aren’t they?”

“That’s what makes them Wardens,” Marian says. “Of course they are.”

“So why leave some of them in camp?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t _know,_ Carver,” she says. “They were recruiting new members - maybe the Warden Commander doesn’t want all his new members going out and getting themselves killed in their first battle.”

He laughs at that. “Suppose you have a point,” he says, and then, “Look - there’s the camp, see it?”

“I see it,” she agrees, following the line of his gesture to see where the tents are arrayed below them. There are men down there already; they’ve been going down one company at a time, she thinks to give each wave time to prepare without everyone making the same preparations at once.

“Do you think we’ll be able to overwhelm them?” Carver asks quietly, glancing back at her. “The darkspawn?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I guess it depends how many there are. But there’s five companies in the King’s army, and Loghain’s men make up another two, I think. Plus there’s other nobles with their people here, and the Wardens, though I don’t know how many of them there are.”

“That’s pretty good, I think,” Carver says thoughtfully. “That’s, what - a thousand men, maybe, and the Wardens. Do you suppose there’s a hundred of them?”

“I doubt it,” she says. “There _weren’t_ any Wardens in Ferelden until a few years ago. They can’t have had much chance to build up their numbers yet, can they?”

“I guess not.” He falls silent, his shoulders drawing forwards as he looks out to the camp still below them, perhaps five minutes on.

Unlike her brother, Marian doesn’t _want_ to think about how many men there are here to face the darkspawn horde, or about how much chance any of them have of surviving. If she starts thinking about any of that, she won’t be able to let it go - there are too many risks and too many factors she can’t possibly hope to change or control. All she can do is keep herself and Carver alive, no matter what happens. _That’s_ why she’s here. That’s what she can worry about.

They’ll get out of it, she assures herself. No matter what happens, they can survive this.

***

“You are telling me the Champion joined the fight against the darkspawn only because of her brother?” she asks.

He blinks slowly at her, raising an eyebrow. “You’re surprised?” he asks. “If you’ve heard the tale, you should know the Champion’s family was always the most important thing.”

She frowns. “I…would have guessed she led the way,” she says slowly. “That her family would have followed her, and not the other way around.”

“There’s a lot of things people guess about the Champion,” he replies, shrugging. “But you’d learn more listening to a man who really knew her.”

***

The camp is a flurry of activity: men and women moving from one place to the other, dogs barking, soldiers training or readying their weapons while the captains call orders. Marian looks around, taking it all in with wary eyes. Carver is comfortable and at ease among these people he’s gotten to know in his training, but she doesn’t know the soldiers around them, and she doesn’t trust them.

“Soldiers,” the captain greets them as they arrive to report in. Carver salutes sharply, snapping to attention. Marian stiffens and greets him with a curt reverence.

“Private Hawke, reporting, ser,” Carver says. “Ready for battle, on your order.”

“At ease, Hawke,” the captain says, and Carver drops his shoulders. “Do what you will to get ready. And get you your armor on, too - the King doesn’t expect to see battle before evening, but we’ve no real way of knowing when those beasts might appear, and we need to be ready to defend ourselves.”

Carver salutes again and runs off to find the quartermaster. Marian is left standing, awkward and stiff, in front of the captain.

“Archer Hawke,” she says. “Reporting, ser.”

“Mm,” says the captain, surveying her. “One of the last-minute enlisters, aren’t you? I know my lieutenant spoke with you some days ago.”

“I’m from the lowlands,” she says. “Grew up as a hunter to feed my family. I hunt big game at seventy, but I can draw to a hundred and ten and still make my mark, ser.”

“That’s an impressive claim,” the captain says. “With how much accuracy?”

“Give me a target,” she replies, slinging her bow off her back and drawing an arrow from her quiver.

The captain laughs at that. “At ease, soldier,” he says. “I’m sure the lieutenant put you through your paces. And I wouldn’t have you tire yourself out before we’ve seen the first darkspawn come crawling out of the woods.”

“Ser,” she agrees, and puts her bow away slowly.

“Go to it, then,” he says. “Speak to the lieutenant about your orders for this evening, and get ye ready to fight.”

***

“What kind of bullshit is this?” she demands, slamming her hands down on the table so hard it shakes. “Stop playing games with me!”

He leans back and raises an eyebrow at her, waiting.

Her eyes narrow farther still. “I know the Champion was an apostate,” she says icily. “Do you think I’m an idiot, to try and convince me she wasn’t a mage? Don’t feed me these lies!”

“I’m not,” he says. “The Champion was an apostate.”

“You expect me to believe she was a mage and an archer? Why would she -”

He shakes his head calmly, spreading his hands. “I didn’t say that,” he says. “Now, are you gonna let me tell the story, or not?”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Marian Hawke does not like taking orders, from anyone, but she’s not a fool, either, and she knows she can’t go charging blindly into battle against the full force of the darkspawn horde. She knows the legends of the Blights past, knows how entire armies have fallen, nations been crushed by a force that knows no rules of combat but only kills mercilessly and without regard for itself.

Still, as she approaches the lieutenant-captain, something about the idea leaves a foul taste in her mouth. Swearing herself to follow the lead of a captain she knows nothing about, whether or not she can see a better way…well, she doesn’t like breaking promises, but it’s not a vow she’s sure she can keep if lives are on the line.

“Archer,” the lieutenant greets her, looking up. “Here for your orders, I take it.”

“Yes, ser,” she replies, stiffly.

“When we’re called to arms for the attack, your post is on the ridge,” the lieutenant says, pointing to the rise of land at the far edge of the soldier’s camp. “King Cailan will give the first command to fire. Lieutenant Second-Class Alder is by the ensign, he’ll be in command of the archery unit once the battle begins, and you’ll get your orders from him unless Captain Varel issues his own for you.”

“Ser,” Marian agrees when the woman looks to her for confirmation.

“Varel or I will call you to arms before the charge,” she continues, “or if there’s ‘spawn approaching before the horde. Before we start the assault on the horde, you and your fellows at arms will be the first line of defense - I don’t want a single infantryman raising his blade until we’re on that field together, am I understood? You and the other archers are responsible for keeping the forerunners from reaching the encampment.”

“Understood, ser,” Marian agrees. That, at least, is an order she’s glad to follow.

“Then you’re dismissed,” says the lieutenant. “But be ready for orders at any moment - if I call for archers, I want you at your post in a second flat.”

“Yes, ser,” Marian says, and bows stiffly before turning to search the camp and find her brother again.

* * *

 The scouts return early in the afternoon with reports on the darkspawn emerging from the Wilds, and the camp grows tense and quiet.

“I want all my archers to the edge of camp,” Captain Varel calls out, marching across the third company encampment. “You’re our first shift - I’m trusting you to keep our men safe for the next two hours. The King himself is trusting you to keep them safe.”

Marian fastens the studded cuirass over her jerkin tightly and adjusts her leather pauldrons to make sure she can draw back her arm to its full extent. “Time to go,” she says grimly to Carver, and turns towards the wall where the others are already taking formation.

“Sister,” he says suddenly, and she looks back at him, surprised. He hesitates, avoiding her gaze, and says, quietly, “Good luck.”

She laughs and gives him a wry smile. “Come on,” she says. “You know I don’t need luck.”

He manages a smile at that. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Guess you’re right.” He claps her on the shoulder with one hand. “Maker be with you.”

“You, too,” she says, and rests her hand over his fingers for a moment before turning away and running towards the ridge to join her comrades in the line of defense.

She’s the first one of the unit to see the darkspawn approaching from the treeline. “There,” she calls in a low voice to her comrades, and points towards them - three dark shapes shuffling through the mad and brush, perhaps a few hundred yards off.

“Good eye, soldier,” says the second lieutenant. “Prepare yourselves, archers, and ready to fire on my mark.”

Marian draws an arrow and settles it against her bowstring, lining up her sights with the coming ‘spawn. She’s not as familiar with the heavy draw weight of a military bow, accustomed to shooting deer and nug at much closer range, without armor to drive the arrows through, but she’s been practicing at the camp with the army-issue longbows, and she’s gotten comfortable with the trajectory her arrow ought to take towards the darkspawn.

“Take aim,” calls Alder, and she draws back her arm, leaning into the bow to direct her shot. At the end of the wall she can just see him out of the corner of her eye, one hand raised, face turned towards the field of battle. “Fire!” he calls, and swings down his arm, and she looses her arrow, drawing another to follow it up.

A hundred fifty yards from the wall of the camp, three hurlocks stagger and fall under a dozen arrows each, and lay dead on the ground.

“There’ll be more any minute,” the second lieutenant says grimly. “Stay sharp, soldiers. For the next few hours, we’re the ones who have to defend the camp.

* * *

It’s almost nightfall when King Cailan marches down to the camp, bringing the rear guard with him. The sky is heavy and dark as stone overhead, and it’s started to rain, turning the earth to mud below the feet of the soldiers. Despite the heat of summer, the air feels cold, and energy tingles on Marian’s skin as thunder rumbles overhead.

“Soldiers!” the king shouts from the center of the camp. “People of Ferelden!”

Everything goes hushed.

“The horde of the darkspawn is nearly upon us,” he shouts. “They come to poison our land, to slaughter our families, to destroy our homes. But will we let them?”

The soldiers roar their dissent at him, and he looks around at everyone, his armor gleaming bright in the light of the massive torches burning at the corners of the camp.

When the noise settles, he continues. “Tonight, I fight with you all, your brother in arms against a threat to all that we hold dear! I need every man and woman here to take heart and fight with me. _We will not fall!”_

There’s another cheer that spreads across the camp in ripples. Marian tightens her grip on her bow. Her eyes scan the crowd for Carver, but she can’t see him amidst all the other soldiers. She swallows.

“Wardens!” shouts Cailan, turning towards the ranks of people clad in blue and grey along the edge of the camp. “I welcome you back to Ferelden gladly, with open arms - and tonight, we will see that your return is a glorious one!”

He draws his sword and turns in a broad arc to take in the whole of the army, his arms outstretched.

“Tonight, we will prove ourselves a force to be reckoned with!” he shouts, and thrusts his blade skyward as a bolt of lightning cracks across the sky. “People of Ferelden, _to arms!”_

The silence breaks into a clamor. In the din the captains are shouting, directing their companies to gather outside of camp on the field; men, woman, dogs all rush down beyond the ridge to amass below the sharp drop, hundreds of them standing at the ready in their rank and file. She thinks she finally sees Carver among them, standing head and shoulders above most of his comrades, head held high even in the pouring rain.

Out beyond the field, beyond the treeline, she can see dull flickering light. Fire, perhaps torches - perhaps trees set alight in the path of the horde.

Among the ranks of the soldiers, she sees two, three priestesses, gold Chantry robes soaked through, bearing incense. Another passes before the rows of archers on the ridge, and as she goes by, Marian half recognizes a segment of the Chant, though she doesn’t know it well enough to name it. “ _For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light…”_

And then she sees them, twisted figures silhouetted against the burning wood, emerging from the trees in dozens. They’re beyond counting, hundreds at least, perhaps thousands still lurking in the wilds behind the front lines. A shiver passes over the soldiers standing below.

“Make ready to shoot,” Alder says. “We’ll rain fire down upon them.”

Marian draws an arrow and aligns it carefully. Below, she can see the king parting the mass of soldiers to stand at the fore. Far across the field, the horde is still, waiting for something. For a long moment, everything is frozen.

The darkspawn rush all at once, suddenly surging forward, more pouring out of the woods behind them. “Archers!” shouts the king, and she raises her bow, draws back her arrow. One of the enchanters, behind them, speaks, and each arrow lights up in flames.

The second lieutenant raises his arm, and she holds her fire until he motions for them to release. A hundred burning arrows at once arch into the air towards the rapidly approaching horde.

“Hounds!” the king shouts, and with a great baying and howling the dogs rush out to meet the darkspawn, kicking up mud as they take to the field.

Cailan holds up his sword, and everyone waits.

“For Ferelden!” he shouts, and runs forward. The full force of the soldiers surges forth alongside him, and all hell breaks loose across the field.


	4. Chapter 4

“The battle itself was a disaster,” he tells her, as if this is supposed to be news to her. “King Cailan died on the field along with his men, betrayed by his most trusted general.”

“I know this already,” she snaps. “Tell me of the Champion! How did she survive?”

He holds up a hand, fixing her with a stern look, and she falls silent, glowering at him.

“The Champion was there in the fray with the rest of the king’s army,” he says, “along with her brother. When the tide of the battle turned, the army began to fall back before the darkspawn. With soldiers dying by the dozens at the horde’s black blades, some of the men realized it was hopeless, and ran for the trees. Some…well, some kept fighting.”

***

“You can’t kill all of them!” Marian shouts, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t _care,_ he’s not going to give up, he’s not going to turn around and run. He clenches his jaw more tightly and braces himself against the next few before they charge at him.

Three, four of them approach at a run, their weapons raised to strike; he throws all his weight into his sword as he swings it to cleave two of them in half and knock the next into its remaining companion. They don’t have time to recover before he does, and he swings the blade back towards them in a clean arc to take off one’s head, and cut a gash across the other’s chest that brings it to the ground.

A hand grabs his arm, and then another; he snaps his head around to see one of the other soldiers trying to pull him back. With a growl he slams his elbow into his comrade’s chest and jerks his arm free so he can run ahead to meet the next wave. There are still other soldiers on the field, locked in battle with the darkspawn; he’s not running while they’re still alive.

“Go!” he shouts at one of them as he rushes in to join her against a gang of three of them. “Go, get out of here, I’ll take them!” He slashes wildly at the ‘spawn, driving them back; though at this angle he can’t get the momentum to tear them apart. Still, one of them falls, and then another, and then another.

Everything is still and quiet for a moment, and he looks out at the field of battle, at the hundreds of darkspawn still crashing down upon them, still pouring out from between the trees. There are soldiers lying dead everywhere he looks, soldiers in the blue and silver armor of the Wardens, soldiers with the king’s insignia across their breastplates. His fellows. His comrades.

“Carver, come back!” Marian is calling, her voice cutting through the haze, but he tunes it out.

There’s another soldier almost overwhelmed ten feet from him. He hefts his sword above his head and takes off running, pushes himself into the air to bring the blade down on top of the hurlock before it can make another attack. It screeches and falls. “Run!” he cries, changing his grip so he can be ready for the next one.

Someone catches him from behind, and he tries to pull free again but there’s someone on his other side, and they’re hauling him backwards.

“Let go of me!” he shouts, writhing and struggling against them. “Let me _go!”_

“King Cailan is dead!” one of them shouts back. “Fall back, fall _back,_ soldier, we can’t win this -“

“We have to try!” he roars, twisting around desperately and trying to resist them. His boots slide in the muddy mess of mire and blood under him; he can’t find strong enough footing to fight off the soldiers. With one hand he strikes out at them, desperate to get away, because he’s still standing, he can still fight - if not to win the battle, for the other soldiers still caught in the fray - he has to _try -_

“There’s too many of them,” one of the soldiers tells him, but he manages to get out of the man’s grasp and stumbles forwards, dragging the other with him. He’s not giving up yet, not while he has one breath left in his chest.

“Get off,” he snarls, and slams his shoulder into the other soldier. She cries out in surprise and stumbles, releasing him. He turns towards the battle and starts off across the ground towards the nearest darkspawn, his teeth gritted, his breath ragged, his heart pounding. His vision blurs a little and he blinks to clear it, ignoring how his eyes are burning.

“ _Stop,_ ” another voice shouts, and a soldier comes up beside him, grabbing him around the chest. He tries to resist, but the soldiers who were on him before have caught up by now, and they get his arms. The three together are stronger than he is; he scrambles to find his feet on the ground but they pull him up and back. He kicks, trying to catch any of them anywhere vulnerable, but all he can manage is to strike his heels against their armor.

“Let me go,” he screams, thrashing against their hold on him, barely able to keep his hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword in his effort to get away. “Let me _go,_ let me fight, I can still fight - there are soldiers out there, good men and women, let me _help—“_

But they aren’t listening, just pulling him away. He knows he’s crying now, and doesn’t care; he can see, fifty paces away, the darkspawn cutting into the people he trained with, and drank with, and fought with. He sobs, still struggling to get out of the grasp of the soldiers, still looking out at the battlefield - but now it’s sixty paces, and then seventy, and he can’t hear the noise of the fighting anymore except as a dull roar.

“Carver!” Marian shouts, and he turns his head to see her running towards him and the soldiers, her face streaked with dirt and blood, her eyes terrified.

He goes limp, and as she reaches them the soldiers let him down onto the ground.

“What were you thinking?” she snaps, grabbing his arm before he falls. “Were you trying to get yourself killed?”

“I - I - ” he chokes, shaking. “I could have - could have helped - could have saved people. There were - there were so many - left out there - ”

He slumps forward and drops to his knees, gasping for breath, scrubbing at his face with the back of one hand. His mouth tastes of blood and salt. His eyes won’t stop spilling over with tears.

“Oh, Carver,” Marian says, kneeling beside him, putting her arm across his back and leaning into him.

“Let me go,” he says, helplessly, lifting his head to look at her. “Let me go back, let me help them, I want to help them.”

“You can’t,” she says, shaking her head. “You _can’t,_ Carver.”

He pushes her away, but he knows he doesn’t have the strength to go back; he hardly has the strength to stand. He tries anyways, stumbling to his feet, reaching for his sword, but it’s too heavy to lift, now. He staggers and falls, landing on his hands and knees in the mud, coughing between sobs and struggling to catch his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Marian is saying, with her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

He tries to draw breath and chokes on it, leans over as he retches and spits blood onto the ground. “I could have,” he manages weakly, his throat tight around the words. “I could have - I could have - ”

“Come on, Carver,” she says, very gently. “We have to go. I’m sorry, but we have to go.”

***

“The Champion fled the battlefield and escaped to Lothering in the north,” he says. “But the darkspawn claimed the ruins at Ostagar in a bloody victory. Unopposed, they marched on the rest of Ferelden. The village was the first settlement they reached.”

“The Champion escaped, evidently,” she replies.

“Of course she did,” he says. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t _be_ here, now, would we?”

She glares at him. “And her family?” she prompts.

He smirks, lifting his chin to give her a maddeningly self-satisfied look. “Her family, too,” he says. “The village burned, and many innocents were slaughtered. The Champion and her family barely escaped in time, but they all made it out of Lothering with their lives.”

“And went where?” she demands. “How did they outrun the blight? Tell me the _truth._ ”

“I will,” he says. “If you care to let me.”


End file.
